


hold the light

by Plutor



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: fun with dwarven politics, ghost au, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plutor/pseuds/Plutor
Summary: In which Thorin wakes up after his fight with Azog. It's too bad no one can see him.





	hold the light

If you've given up, I will call an end to this  
I will be your rock from our perch  
If you walk the ridge, you will find the marks, the scars  
Kneel down by the tree, under the city stone  
We never say goodbye  
Just let me hold the light

-'Hold the light' by Dierks Bentley 

The first thing Thorin sees after he dies is gold. It’s a barely there speck, shining off in the distance, but Thorin is a dwarf and all dwarves know the call of gold. When Thorin was much younger he’d held the odd notion that dwarves were made of gold themselves, that yellow ran alongside red in their blood, guiding them to precious jewels and metals like a compass. He stopped believing that when Erebor fell and all their riches were stolen by Smaug. 

Thorin pushes himself to his feet and notes with a small amount of wonder that he’s no longer bleeding. The wound on his stomach, caused by Azog’s sword, is still there, flesh parted slightly, but no blood spills from it. He frowns at the strange sight and tugs his tunic to the side so that the cut is covered. Raising his eyes, he realizes that the speck of gold still shimmers in the distance and Thorin starts walking towards it, wondering if this is the call of Mahal, wondering what will happen when he finally sees his father and grandfather again. He hurries closer but the gold bobs and weaves away like a lantern and the ground beneath him is slippery, like ice. 

He makes it to the edge of the frozen lake and sees before him the city of Dale, no longer abandoned but flush with every manner of person. They move like ghosts before him, strange colorless beings who seem almost blurred around the edges. Thorin stops, rubs at his eyes, but it does no good. Dale, too, is swatched in gray. In fact, the only color at all that Thorin can see is the spot of gold that guides him like a beacon. It pushes further into the city, towards Erebor, and he hurries after it. 

It very quickly becomes apparent that no one can see him. Thorin knocks into shoulders in his haste, but the eyes of the townsfolk slide right off him. They frown, shiver, and move along. He tries shouting and waving his hands in front of faces to no avail. He waits for someone to cry out that ‘the king under the mountain is back!’ but no one does. He must be well and truly dead. He thinks, _ it’s not them who are the ghosts, but me. _

The gates of Erebor are open. Thorin slips in behind a group of battle-bloodied dwarves. He doesn’t recognize them personally, but he knows that they are Dáin’s men. Their faces are somber, not the way dwarvish faces typically are after a good fight. They should be celebrating, Thorin thinks, with music and drink. Azog is dead. And Kili will be a good king. Thorin’s heart clenches as he thinks of the older brother, of Fili, butchered on Azog’s sword before Thorin had a chance to get there. When he sees his nephew again, Thorin will tell him that he’s sorry. 

He follows the dwarves deeper into the mountain feeling as though something is wrong. For the first time, Thorin’s heavy boots don’t echo throughout the halls of Erebor. He walks silently, swallowed by the stone. Did Fili follow this same path just minutes before Thorin, or is Thorin alone in this strange game of chase? He spots another flash of gold, ducks down a different hallway. Thorin never gave much thought to the mysteries of death. He supposed he was stubborn in a sense; or perhaps arrogant. He knew that someday he would pass like his ancestors before him, but it was always _ someday. _ Now confronted with this new reality, Thorin realizes there are no stories or myths that mirror what is happening to him right now. Most dwarves believed that upon death, they would simply wake up in Mandos. 

The speck of gold grows brighter; Thorin is getting close. He winds his way down a set of stairs, emerging into a wide, stone cavern. Seats filled with dwarven stock are carved into the walls so that the entire room becomes an amphitheater. At the very bottom sits a circular platform upon which are three stone beds. Gathered around them is Thorin’s company, and Gandalf. And Bilbo. Thorin freezes, remembering little hobbit hands covered in red as they tried, desperately and uselessly, to keep him from him from bleeding out. He remembers Bilbo saying ‘the eagles are here’ and then he remembers nothing else. He looks at Bilbo and he sees this and something else. The gold he has been following the whole time is emanating from Bilbo himself, shining bright as a brazier from his shirt pocket. He has a single, absurd thought that Bilbo is somehow Mahal, before dismissing the notion entirely. No, the gold was never the call of Mahal in the first place. 

Before he can work out exactly what that means, his attention is brought to the three stone beds and the _ bodies _on top of them. The first one is Fili, golden hair eleboratly braided and strung with colorless rubies, sapphires and many other precious jewels. Standing over him is Balin, who leans forward to press a kiss to Fili’s forehead and place a coin in the prince’s mouth. It’s a life taken much too young. Thorin squeezes his eyes shut, pushes down everything he feels, and when he opens them again he’s marginally calmer. 

The next body is a bigger shock, only because it’s so familiar. There’s a strange moment of disconnect where Thorin can’t exactly believe what he’s seeing, that there are two of him, almost as if he’s looking through a mirror but the pictures are different._ I’m dreaming _, he thinks. This can’t be real. Bilbo is standing next to him, crying. Thorin doesn’t deserve Bilbo’s tears, the hobbit had been nothing but kind and loyal, and Thorin, in the midst of his fervor, had thrown him out like a dog. On the dias, Thorin’s hands are cupping the arkenstone. He walks up to Bilbo, and places a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. A flicker of something passes over Bilbo’s face, but it’s quickly smoothed away. The hobbit can’t see him either, despite his strange golden aura. 

The crowd around the third body finally parts and Thorin is able to see, for the first time, who is laying there. All of a sudden he can’t breathe. “No nono no.” He says, staring in shock at Kili’s lifeless body. _ Surely not him too. _He walks on trembling legs up to his youngest nephew. Somehow Azog’s army had managed to wipe out the entire line of Durin and Thorin hadn’t even known. Kili is adorned as Fili had been; in precious jewels. He’s stripped of his battle armor, and is instead dressed in ceremonial robes. Thorin casts his gaze out to the audience and finds Dáin, sees him in a golden crown. He feels a sudden bolt of white-hot anger towards his cousin, although none of this is Dáin’s fault. But, with Azog dead, there's no one left to blame. 

Gandalf says some pretty words over their bodies, there’s a cry of ‘Long Live The King!” as Dáin is coronated, and then the whole affair is over. Dáin and his troop filter out, followed by Balin, Dwalin and Gandalf. They have just reconquered a mountain kingdom and there is much to discuss. Thorin’s company lingers longer, but they too eventually split off into groups of two or three, no longer banded together under Thorin’s leadership. They look white-faced and lost. Soon only one remains. Bilbo has not moved from Thorin’s side, although he looks close to throwing up. Ori beckons him from across the room, but Bilbo shakes his head, stubbornly. Thorin realizes that Bilbo is not looking at his body, but instead at the arkenstone, glowing on his chest. 

Bilbo says, “I’m sorry, Thorin.” His voice is scratchy and raw. 

Thorin says, “No.” It seems to be the only thing he’s capable of saying.

As if his legs can no longer support him, Bilbo slides to the ground, his back against Thorin’s dias. He pulls his knees to his chest and drops his head. The gold light pulses around his figure and it’s the only thing that’s keeping Thorin from falling into a complete panic. He folds himself into the space next to Bilbo, feeling the cold from the ground seep into his body. Erebor had never felt chilly to him before, but it’s different now, like his whole body was frozen and then only half-thawed out. He can’t seem to get warm. Leaning close to Bilbo, however, alleviates the pinch, if only somewhat. He tries to think of what he should do next. 

Thorin knows he’s dead. He’s known it since he realized that Azog was much too strong for him to beat. Thorin would sacrifice himself and Erebor would be safe for Kili to rule. That was the way it was supposed to go. Now, Thorin is dead but not, and his nephews are both gone; to where, Thorin has no clue since he didn’t seem to end up there himself. Instead, he’s stuck watching his friends weep for him. Great Mahal, he thinks, and pulls hard on one of his braids, a nervous habit from childhood. From somewhere deep in Erebor he can hear the lingering echoes of a familiar, wistful song and somehow Thorin knows that this is not a dream. 

He says, “Bilbo, I’m still here.” And Bilbo cries, saying nothing at all.


End file.
